


Born Again

by slothprincess



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 19:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14143242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothprincess/pseuds/slothprincess
Summary: Tailgate's dying but new hope may have just came his way in the form of Drift, mega millionaire and faith healer televangelist extraordinaire.Ratchet's 500% sure this is a scam and that Drift is the most infuriatingly charming bot he's ever met.





	Born Again

**Author's Note:**

> I'd posted this earlier on Tumblr, but thought I'd share it here too. I do plan to continue it, but want to finish some other things up first

The bot on the holoscreen certainly wasn’t hard on the optics Ratchet would give him that. Pristine whites with crisp red accents in all the right places were offset by a dark face. It was rare occasion mechs not within the medical field adopted such colors. A pity he thought, as the bot on screen wore them well.

And an equal pity that despite his handsome demeanor, Ratchet hated him already. An aura of sanctimonious arrogance oozed from his perfect smile as he grinned out from the screen. The perfect cocktail of schmoozing charm and self-righteousness.The camera zoomed out revealing the frowning visage of Primus sculpted in gold. A religious zealot then. That explained it.

“Isn’t he amazing?”

Tailgate’s face was propped up by his hands, his optics never leaving the screen, “A genuine miracle worker!” 

Usually muted to a dull buzz, today Tailgate’s holoscreen blared loud enough Ratchet had heard it from the lobby. The steady sound of tiny pedes reverberated through the room as Tailgate smacked them against the bed’s baseboard with a steady thwock.

Now this piqued Ratchet’s interest. Albeit reluctantly. It had been ages since Tailgate showed this much enthusiasm for, well, anything. Certainly not since full-time admittance to the ward.

Ratchet stole another glance at the holoscreen. A wild passion had overtaken the bot-in-question. Gesturing manically in large waving movements, his voice boomed loud over the audience below. 

“And I say, ‘Begone, foul disease. Begone, rust rash! Believe in Primus, believe in the Hand! You will be healed!”

A femme in the audience wailed.

He was going to kill whoever left this station on for Tailgate to find. Probably Pharma. Not that he thought Pharma responsible. Godless heathen that he was, he doubted his assistant even knew who Primus was, let alone the times for the weird late-night broadcasts. No, he was just irritating. Like the conversation he was now required to have

“You can’t actually believe this drivel?” He asked, arching a brow as the bot on screen appeared to be faking some sort of grand mal seizure. This was too bizarre. Even for Primus’ Hand. Tailgate merely rolled his optics.

“You don’t understand. This isn’t just some dumb show. Drift is amazing! He’s passionate and smart. And he’s been through stuff. He used to be a Syk addict, you know?”

Tailgate’s pedes hit the baseboard again. Thwock. Thwock. Thwock.

“ ’Til one day, get this, he has a bad trip. Scored from the wrong dealer. He’s losing sight, lost energon, everything hurts. Thinks he’s dying. That’s when he sees him. Primus himself. Can you imagine, Ratchet? Seeing Primus? And then Primus speaks to him! And you know what he says?”

There were at least seven scathing replies Ratchet could make off the top of his head. Twelve if he wasn’t worried about Cybertron’s expansive libel laws. Possibly thirteen if he counted the one Pharma barked at him last week in the cafeteria for taking the last Rhodium packet. But Tailgate was in an excitable mood today, a rarer and rarer occasion, and Ratchet felt indulgent.

“What does he say, Tailgate?”

“He says,” Tailgate put on his best Primus voice, gruff and pompous, “ ‘Stop doing this to yourself, Drift. Get a job!’ Isn’t that great?”

 Ratchet gave a noncommittal shrug. He didn’t want to rain on Tailgate’s parade but the amount of times he’d told that exact same thing to the leakers and addicts at the clinic was disheartening. The fact that one of them actually took the advice was the most miraculous aspect of Tailgate’s story. Not noticing his disinterest, Tailgate prattled on, excitement flushing his cheeks.

“So anyway, he throws out all his Syk, all his boosters, and takes up preaching. He’s down in the very pits of the Dead End bringing the Word of Primus to the lost and downtrodden when he discovers it. Primus’ Blessing. The ability to heal through faith alone. The ones who have no hope or can’t afford a doctor. Plus he’s kind, charming and rich to boot, too! He even has his own personal jet to zip him right where he needs to go to do the most help!”

Ratchet scowled up from the patient chart he’d been reviewing, “What’s he need a jet for? His alt mode’s a fragging race car.”

“The jet’s also his bodyguard. He needs one,” Tailgates optic screen was wide as he whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “the cult of Mortilus hates him. In account of him being touched by Primus.”   

Ratchet made a rude sound.“He’s certainly touched by something. He’s a scam artist, Tailgate. And one who should consider switching his alt mode from car to showboat if the holoscreen I’m seeing is accurate. It would certainly be more fitting. The only reason he needs a bodyguard would be to protect himself from all the angry Iaconians he’s scammed.”

Tailgate shot him a wounded look and Ratchet sighed, shelving his paperwork. He knew why Tailgate was so entranced by this charlatan.

“Look I know your diagnosis isn’t great, Tailgate. But you can’t just expect some magic cure to just pop out of the woodworks. This guy’s just looking for a quick buck from desperate mechs. Mechs that are gonna be too dead to do anything about it when his so-called miracles don’t manifest!”

He felt for the kid. Really. But getting his hopes up with false promises and allays was cruel. Perhaps the more kindly option was to allow him some last shred of comfort, but then again no one had ever accused Ratchet of kindness.

Tailgate rolled over, back to Ratchet. A clear signal their conversation through. Tough luck if he thought that was going to make him leave. Ratchet still owed a duty of care to all his patients, one he didn’t take lightly. Tailgate’s temperature still needed to be taken, as well as his fluid levels, not to mention the dispensing of his numerous pills. And they didn’t necessarily need to smalltalk for it to get done.

Tailgate knew the routine.

“I still want to see him in person,” he muttered, holding out his arm for Ratchet’s IV. “He makes me feel better. _Unlike you_.”

Ratchet sighed. He could feel the beginning of a tantrum brewing. With his petite frame and penchant for juvenile behavior it was difficult to remember Tailgate was older than him. A lot older.

Ratchet needed to act fast if he wanted to salvage this appointment. Tailgate was sweet as honeyed energon when in a good mood, but when upset, hoo boy, cooperation with him was next to impossible. He would sullenly refuse pills, reply to questions in a monosyllabic fashion, once he’d even ripped out an IV. It had been an accident, but everyone involved had been scarred or disturbed in some fashion. Even the hospital’s veterans shook their helms at the memory. Worse yet, he’d kept that behavior up for a week. 

 By the time Ratchet convinced him to swallow a week’s worth of pills and submit to another scan, Tailgate had been on the brink of comatose. Many a nurse refused to work with him after that stunt, which was why Ratchet was here now administrating a saline fluid, and not diagnosing one of his many new incoming patients.

 But perhaps he could spin this to his advantage. The only way Tailgate was getting out of this hospital, even temporarily, was with Ratchet’s insignia. And Tailgate wanted out desperately. If he could strike some sort of deal, with minimal effort on his own part, he could ensure Tailgate’s cooperation for the foreseeable future. All he’d have to do was sit through one measly sermon. That couldn’t be too hard. Right?

He exhaled. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. 

“Fine. I will take you to this show. On one condition. You have to promise to listen to me and all the other nurses from here on out, got it?”

Tailgate shook his head, optics wide.

“And you’ll continue taking your medicine no matter what slag this witchdoctor spouts at you?” 

“Of course, sir.”

Ratchet snorted. Now he was acting respectful.

“Then I’ll reserve the tickets.”

Ratchet pulled up the site on his HUD. Selecting two mid-seats, he checked the price and hastily reselected two further back. He could certainly afford it, after all he was one of the most well-paid doctors in the hospital. Perhaps in his class. But it was the principal of the thing. He refused to pay double digits for a glorified stage magician. Grumbling, he hit confirm and forwarded the info to Tailgate’s HUD.

Tailgate flew into Ratchet’s arms, nearly upending the IV post, “Thank you, Ratchet, thank you! You’re the best! I take back everything I said. Oh, Primus! I’ve got to go get ready. This is going to be the greatest.”

Tailgate exited the room in a flurry of excitement, tins of polish piled in his arms as he made his way to the showers, IV trailing behind him in a manner that made Ratchet cringe. 

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, “Just don’t get your hopes up, kid.” But Tailgate was already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Ratchet calling Pharma a godless heathen, despite being the STOUTEST atheist is probably my favorite addition. Never stop being you, Ratch.


End file.
